


His king. His warrior.

by Le_Noir



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Military, Finger Fucking, M/M, PWP, SEE EACH CHAPTER'S SUMMARY FOR DETAILED TAGS AND WARNINGS!!!, Some PWP, bottom!Dwalin, hints of D/s, mention of major character's death, mention of violence, submissive!Thorin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-14
Updated: 2015-01-15
Packaged: 2018-02-25 08:48:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2615669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Le_Noir/pseuds/Le_Noir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of Dworin ficlets :)<br/><br/><b><span class="u">Different ratings and warnings. See each chapter's summary for more!</span></b><br/><br/>Ch. 1 - And that's enough (M - Military!au)<br/>Ch. 2 - His warrior (T)<br/>Ch. 3 - Not beyond this door (E)<br/>Ch. 4 - Grace from blight (G)<br/>Ch. 5 - Teaching you the right way (E - modern!au)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. And that's enough

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Saetha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saetha/gifts).



> First three chapters are not new stories, I simply moved them from [Florilegium](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1208158/chapters/2470972).
> 
> Despite what I said, in fact, I thought Dworin needed a collection on his own. Love my hubbies, want to write of them till the end of my days! <3
> 
> This is a gift for [Saetha](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Saetha/pseuds/Saetha), because I love her and her stories! *.*

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Rating** : Mature;  
>  **Tags** : Military!AU, mention of sex, mention of violence, mention of character's death  
>  **Warning** : major character's death;  
>  **Words** : 665.
> 
> Written for the [Dworin week](http://mainecoon76.tumblr.com/post/86891479523/dworin-week-prompt-post) on Tumblr. **Day two: war**.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This piece of military!AU came to my mind some time ago, while listening compulsively to the Boss’ Devil’s Arcade. Now I decided to finally write it down and I had to set my ITunes on "repeat one"...

* * *

 

_The rush of your lips, the feel of your name_  
 _The beat of your heart, the Devil's arcade_

 

 

The voice of the machine-gun takes them by surprise and Thorin finds himself pondering how, if you concentrate on the noise, it ends up sounding just like a heartbeat. Fast, rabbiting, pounding. Just like theirs. Just like that night. And it's stupid, stupid to think about such a thing in the midst of an ambush.

But maybe his brain knows, already knows what is to come and wants to linger in that feeling again. Maybe it's normal, for a man in his last moments on this hot, sandy world - _does he knows it?_ \- to let his mind wander, to let it go back to him.

His body is fully functioning on his own accord - _running, dodging, kneeling, firing, hiding, shouting_ -  but his mind is miles away, away from that sound that's disturbingly like a living sign, miles away from the metal in his hand, the gear on his body. It's miles away - _no, not so far away. They're not so far away_ \- with him, who's probably drinking a beer in his office ("Paperwork is boring," he always says, "I need something to wash it down." even if they are supposed not to be drinking while working; but he's one of the best man any army could have and he always gets away with a beer or two) and, maybe - _it's stupid, isn't it?_ \- thinking of him. Or maybe not, not this time. But Thorin knows how warm his hands can be, and that's enough.

The sand around him explodes and gets stained, the world around him roars in pain and his body is still perfectly working - _kneel, fire, kneel_ \- but his mind sees bored grey eyes flying over some report and strong hands holding a pencil that looks just such a foreign tool in them.

"No way, not this time." "I need this work done." "Give it to some of those bookworms, I'm coming with you!" "I need you here." "I'm a _soldier_." "I'm your _officer_." Thorin wonders how mad will he be at him. Will he ever be able to forgive him? He's not sure, but he's safe now, and that's enough.

Had he already known somehow? He cannot say. Shouts around him, shouts out of his mouth – _Stay down, guys! Fire back! Fire back!_ – and he’s thinking of grey eyes, warm hands and beer. But it had been whisky, that night.

A lazy night off for everyone; not for him, shut in his office, worrying over some messages he received. At the door opening and closing again, he raises his eyes to a bottle of Scotch whisky on his desk and Dwalin staring down at him. "I thought you could use a break," and that’s all. And he just nods and maybe smiles; because Dwalin is a friend more than just his soldier, his brother-in-arms, and this night he’s something more. And they have alcohol to blame, if they'd ever feel to. "Are you seriously wearing aftershave?" If this is just chance, it makes no sense, but it's good, and that's enough.  
  
It starts with a glass and ends against a wall. It starts in the amber shades of liquor and ends amidst lost breaths and ragged words. It ends in strong arms around his waist and rough concrete against his skin. It ends in their names on each other's lips and graceless, desperate rutting.

Someone, somewhere, said that greatest pleasure and greatest pain share perfectly similar expression.

So, when the pain comes, his eyes widen and his jaw goes slack. And if Dwalin could see him in this moment - _just his expression, not the blooming red spot on his side_ \- maybe he would smile; maybe even shiver.

But he's not here now - _he's safe_ \- he's far away - _not so far away_ \- and pain is an ocean between them. It washes his mouth and it's thick, biting copper, but he tastes whisky and smells aftershave over sweat and death as the machine-gun replaces the beats of his heart, and that's enough. That's enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quotes are from:
> 
> \- _Devil's arcade_ , Bruce Springsteen;  
> \- _Narcissus and Goldmund_ , Herman Hesse


	2. His Warrior

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Rating** : Teen/Mature  
>  **Tag** : mention of violence, death, canonical major character's death  
>  **Warning** : major character's death  
>  **Words** : 1105
> 
> Written for the [Dworin week](http://mainecoon76.tumblr.com/post/86891479523/dworin-week-prompt-post) on Tumblr. **Day six: the end.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've shamelessly stolen the gate part from the tale Graham told at the Hobbitcon 2, when talking about the relationship between Dwalin and Thorin... god, I've loved that panel so much. That's when this story popped to my mind, obviously. Thank you, Dworin week, for forcing me into writing down some of the ideas that are gnawing at my brain!

* * *

_It's so hard to get old without a cause_  
 _I don't want to perish like a fading horse_

  
  
There is a legend, among their people, of a King and his faithful Warrior.

As it always happens when legends are involved, names have faded in the mist of time, but deeds stand their ground, tough as the stone Dwarrows are so connected to.

They say the Warrior was like an extension of the King's arm, as if they shared a part of their mind; they say a look was enough for them to understand each other, for one to acknowledge the other's orders, to execute them.  
  
They tell the story of a long, bloody war between clans, triggering events long forgotten and made up again. They tell the story of how the great King decided to end the madness by subduing the enemy fortress, by bringing its gates down. They say the King never needed to speak that command out loud, because the Warrior already knew. He lead the charge, they say, and gave the city to his King.

They say the King looked the Warrior in the eyes and that was enough of a sign of gratitude. The King had once tried, they say, to give the Warrior the honours he deserved, but the Warrior had bowed and refuse them. For he considered serving his King the greatest honour of all, having his trust and his friendship. Having his heart, they say.

They say that night - as many nights before and after as well - the King called the Warrior in his quarters, and they were one, like they were always meant to be.

They say it came unexpected. After countless fights side by side, a traitorous blow descended and the Warrior fell, protecting his King, his Liege, his Friend and Love.  
  
The King never flinched, they say, never faltered, never backed down. His strength never cracked and his revenge stroke mercilessly. He led his men and smote his enemies and harps wove the victory in endless, colourful threads.  
  
The King buried his Warrior. It is said funerals are for the living more than the dead themselves and the King poured onto that ceremony all he glory the Warrior always abstained from. He spoke of courage and loyalty, of grandeur and duty. His voice was steady and his look stern, they say; and if anyone ever suggested a wet gleam veiled his eyes, it is known legends are wrapped in adornments.  
  
They say the King brought peace again and ruled wisely, but something had gone lost that day. He arranged everything for his kingdom to flourish and prosper and one day, simply, he was gone. Someone said he walked into the depths of his fortress and never came back, someone said he simply walked away, someone said he went to search for his Warrior and followed him. No one really knew, but that's what legends are made of.  
  
They say the Maker looked down and sighed; he turned to his Wife, she smiled and they knew. They say Mahal lifted the King and brought him back to his Warrior and let them walk side by side forever. They are said to be wandering the world and sometimes coming back together into new bodies.  
  
Dwalin has never been the one for stories and romantic dreams, but he has always wanted to be that Warrior. And sometimes, in their carefree young days, Thorin and him had fantasized about being their reincarnations.  
  
The first time they thought about had been a night, after returning from hunting down a pack of orcs. Young, reckless and proud. Excited, strong and victorious. Wrapped in the supposed immortality that always accompany youth. Wrapped in each other's arms under a ceiling of stone and gems. Together, they set all the pieces in the right place. The Prince - _but you'll be King, one day, my King_ \- and his Warrior. The Prince and his friend. The Prince and his lover.  
  
They had laughed about that thought even in their older years, Thorin's weary expression softening and Dwalin's chest tightening, hands clutching and foreheads brushing.  
  
They had laughed about it even soon after reclaiming Erebor, in a fleeting moment of sheer exaltation, before realisation crushed down on them and the sickness reclaimed Thorin's mind.  
  
Dwalin has always wanted to be that Warrior.  
Dwalin has always wanted to be the one to run and bring that gate down.  
Dwalin has always wanted to be the extension to Thorin's arm, part of his mind, the half of his heart.  
  
And yet, he knows he has failed.  
  
He's lying as strength slowly seeps away from him, and he knows everything's wrong.  
  
There's a soft mattress beneath his back instead of bare rock and hard ground, bloodied and soiled in filth.  
There's dim candlelight haloing around him, instead of pitiless sunlight.  
There's incense spiraling in the air, put there to cover the stench of disease and impending death. But the air should be drenched in smoke and smell like carnage.  
  
He's old and feeble, surrounded by fretting relatives and friends. He should be younger and mighty, surrounded by corpses and defeated enemies.  
  
Dwalin has always wanted to be the one to run and bring that gate down.  
But he's not been able to save Thorin from himself; and when the blows have come, he's not been able to run and stop them, he's not been able to run and take them in his stead.  
  
Dwalin has always wanted to be that Warrior, but that Warrior protected his King with his life. He's failed, instead, and now his King has lain for too long in a dark hall, flanked by his own blood, too young to sleep there. He's failed and his Love has lain for too long in the wrong bed.  
  
He's been a coward. He put his axes down and let himself grow old, refusing to follow his brother to Moria, to fight again and maybe die like he should have to. He chose to crumble, instead, slowly, like stone to sand.  
  
He knows he's not worth it, but weakness becomes old age. He has had a wish for his entire life, and at some point he'd allowed himself to believe it could be true, only to discover it was nothing but a crippling lie.

Now he's crippled and dying and he dares another wish.  
  
He let himself believe once more and prays Mahal to let him see Thorin again, to let them wander side by side wherever they're meant to be from now on.  
  
As his eyes slide shut for the last time, in the darkness he can tell a smile apart, an arm stretched out in his direction. Dwalin smiles back and reaches for that hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quote from _Forever young_ by Alphaville


	3. Not beyond this door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Rating** : Explicit  
>  **Tag** : a bit of sex, a bit of PWP and hints of D/s, submissive!Thorin  
>  **Warning** : None  
>  **Words** : 646
> 
> Written for the [Dworin week](http://mainecoon76.tumblr.com/post/86891479523/dworin-week-prompt-post) on Tumblr. **Day seven: intimacy.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because Dwalin taking control, that’s why. And I’m a sucker for submissive!Thorin.  
> Smut. Just a tad. I think I poured enough angst over these two in the past days, it's time for some sexiness <3
> 
> Set in Ered Luin or in Erebor (hypothetical everybody lives!AU), you choose ^^
> 
>  
> 
>  **Edit:** I revised it a bit! ^^  
> 

* * *

The shadows move the second he enters the room. Inhaling sharply, eyes narrowing, Thorin looks around, searching for a weapon. As his hand closes around metal, his mouth opens around a menace. But someone is quicker.

"Shut up and close the door!"

The voice is rough, veined with a shiver that has Thorin smirking lightly.

"Dwalin."

The warrior takes a step further, quirking his lips, arms crossed on his chest.

"Were you waiting for someone else?" he inquires, a brow cocking in amusement.

"Not your business," Thorin counters, but his expression softens, as he puts the sword back down.

"Alright," Dwalin chuckles. "Nevertheless, I thought you could use some relief."

Two long strides have him standing right in front of the other, and he tucks a loose strand of hair behind his ear in a soft move. "Your day must have been tough".

"Hideous," Thorin confirms in a sight.

"Those delegates," rough fingers trace the shell of his ear, "they must have been annoying." They come down, caressing his jaw.

"Unbearable."

Thorin leans into the touch, eyes fluttering shut.

"I'm sure, however," Dwalin's hand curls under his chin, slightly lifting it, "I can find a way to make you forget them." He leans in, lips brushing lips.

"I'm sure I can find a way to make you relax." His voice is a gruff whisper, as he kisses Thorin gently and feels him melting pliant under his touch, his mouth opening willingly, the soft way his tongue licks on his, inviting.  
  
"A way to take this burden out of your shoulders." Dwalin trails his hand along Thorin's face, his neck, his arms. Slowly, he starts working at the laces in his clothes, tugging, undoing, baring skin and following with lips and gentle teeth, reveling in the fast heating of the body under his.

"A way to make you forget who you are." As layers comes down, kisses become more hungry, touches more demanding. They grasp and bite and scrape and it's all heavy breaths and wetness and moaning, until Thorin's garments are all on the floor, and he's panting loudly, head thrown back.

"A way to make you remember you're mine." Dwalin seizes him by the shoulders and roughly make him turn, pressing him against the wall. Reaching blindly, he grabs one of the laces that kept the king's shirt in place. He gets hold of both his wrists and pins them against the small of his back, securing the thin rope around. Forcing Thorin to face him again, Dwalin kiss him deeply. "And mine alone. _Kneel_."

When they play this game, Thorin becames like a puppet to his will and the warrior has to breathe deeply, as he takes a step back, giving the other space to execute his order, and his heart threatens to explode with emotion at the sight of his king, his fierce, powerful king, naked and tied up, lowering to his knees for him, head bowed and face hidden among unruly locks. He feels the rush of scorching passion running through his body as Thorin looks at him and his eyes, _his eyes!_ , are wide and deep. Demanding.

Dwalin closes his and lets the burning tide wash over him. Regains his role and comes back to playing.

"There, there you are," he breathes raggedly, as he closes the distance between them again. One hand tangles in Thorin’s hair, forcing his head back; the other fumbles a bit at his own waist, undoing belt and breeches as well, freeing his swollen cock. Smirking predatorily, he traces Thorin’s lips with its leaking head, slapping lewdly, " _my greedy slut_."

There’s a sound, somewhere down Thorin’s throat, that’s clearly a growl, a bout of defiance, a leap of his untamed pride.

"Beware," he hisses arsh, among gritted teeth, "I’m still your King."

Dwalin’s grin only broadens; his eyes only glister more brightly.

"Not beyond this door."


	4. Grace from blight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Rating** : Gen/Teen  
>  **Tag** : canonical major character's death  
>  **Warning** : major character's death  
>  **Words** : 597
> 
> Dwalin's world starts and ends in Thorin's eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I reached the point of spending my shower time mulling over Dworin. Why said Dworin ended up being sad idk. I need fluff not angst! ç____ç
> 
> This was literally written on the spot, so forgive any mistake and all, I just needed to let it out ^^;

* * *

Dwalin’s world starts and ends in Thorin’s eyes.

It doesn't matter how cheesy that may sound. There would probably be hundreds of even cornier, more cliched comparisons to be made here: eyes as blue and cold as the polls of icy water hiding in the depths of Erebor; eyes as blue and deep as some of the gems the Mountain gifts them; eyes as blue and clear as the sky above their homeland. In all honesty, Dwalin is not sure he'd just dismiss them all, to begin with (but, even if he ever privately indulged in sappiness, that is not for anybody to know. And if anyone ever did, be sure they _wouldn't live enough_ to tell the tale).

Thorin's eyes are probably the only place on earth Dwalin would willingly lost himself, and that's plainly inane as well but, still, he's not sure he really minds; the only thing he knows for a fact is that Thorin's eyes have charmed him right from the beginning. The first time they met, Dwalin got struck by those pale blues: eyes of a prince, bright with youth and confidence, and he remembers mindlessly hoping to never have to see that fire burning any lower. 

But things rarely go the way you think they would. And rarely you can tell grace from blight at first glance.

That being the case, when Dwalin actually witnessed the dimming of that light, it revealed itself to be the blessing of his life - and his damnation, too, but he'd realise that only much later; for he, and he alone, is the One allowed to really look into those eyes and _see_. The One allowed to peek behind the stern façade of the leader and the warrior. The One to behold the whole plethora of emotions cutting through them.

He has rejoiced seeing determination in them, and pride and strength. He has suffered witnessing doubt, loss and fear. He has seen pain and has seen love. He has seen need and has seen lust.

He knows he will never praise Mahal enough for this gift, for the privilege of being the One to stand there, with his wits, his words and his body, to celebrate, to soothe, to pleasure, to chase the sadness, to make the want flare. He knows he will never thank the Maker enough every time he realises that it's the same thing the other way round.

A glance is all what he needs - what _they_ need - to understand, to know what to do: in court, in battle, in bed. A look in those eyes is all what it takes for him to find comfort; for him to give it. In all their long years side by side, like an old, experienced miner, Dwalin has learnt to path their depths, learnt how to move, where to look to find exactly what he's searching for.

If the world ever turned silent, if he ever turned deaf, a look in those eyes would just make up for all the lost words in his life.

But the higher you soar, the deepest you fall; and brighter lights leave hollower darkness once they're gone.

Dwalin’s world starts and ends in Thorin's eyes.

Eyes of a lover.  
Eyes of a King.  
Eyes of a madman.  
Eyes that were.  
Eyes that are.  
Eyes that could have been.

Dwalin's world starts and ends in Thorin's eyes.

It lights up up when they burn with passion and shrinks when desperation fogs them. 

It cracks when the sickness makes them empty and falls down to cinders when death stoles them away. 


	5. Teaching you the right way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Rating** : Explicit;  
>  **Tags** : modern au, pwp!!!, finger fucking, bottom!Dwalin;  
>  **Warnings** : none;  
>  **Words** : 1235
> 
> Dwalin tried to recall how the dipping of a finger into cookie dought could have brought to him being tied up in a bed and practically tortured by his heartless lover, but his watery brain just informed him that _nope, that's too much of an effort, thank you very much_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was making another sad gifset, when I remembered this ficlet lay unfinished…  
> I decided to go smutty even if I’m not sure I can actually smut. Let me know what you think! 0.0;;
> 
> Based on one of [these lovely tropes](http://tickatocka.tumblr.com/post/92410649976/some-fun-sex-tropes-laughing-during-sex-and-or). Maybe I could use some of the others as well?
> 
> Prompt: _Touching anywhere but where the person desperately wants to be touched_.

* * *

 

"What did I say?"

Dwalin's mind had, by that moment, curiously melted and eventually given up, so the words reached him slow and blurry like through muddy water.

"Do- don't touch," he slurred, and articulate more than one garbled groan felt like quite a feat alone.

All what he could feel, breathe, think of were his restraints.

His restraints and Thorin's hands.

His entire world had just shrunk to those cunning fingers that stroked and caressed and petted and tickled everywhere. Anywhere but...

"Aye," Thorin breathed, curving down to lick wetly at his ear before blowing gently, sending sparks and shivers to run all across his lover's body.

"But you didn't listen to me, did you?" he asked, pleased mischief dripping from lips still busy brushing at a sensitive ear lobe. One of his hands was kneading thoroughly at the underside of Dwalin's thigh, while the other took care of his left nipple, grazing and pinching.

Unable to stop himself, Dwalin squirmed under Thorin's body, arms straining at the soft strips of fabric securing his wrists to the bed headboard. He bit down hard at his lower lip to keep himself from _whining_ , cock twitching and valiantly protesting against the lack of attention with an abundant dribble of pre-come.

"I- I've... oh, _fuck_ , Thorin, _touch me_!"

Thorin tut-tutted, his smirk nothing but feral.

"Not so fast. Gonna teach you the difference between _touching_ ," he explained, and Dwalin could not tell what was more unbearable, whether the mock condescendence coating his tone or the hand that, leaving his inner thigh, travelled upward, skimming just a hair's breadth away from his sack and stopping just an inch shy of his leaking cock. "And _not touching_ , as you seem to be quite dense about the subject."

Dwalin tried to recall how the dipping of a finger into cookie dough could have brought to him being tied up in a bed and practically tortured by his heartless lover, but his watery brain just informed him that _nope, that's too much of an effort, thank you very much_. The same liquefied grey matter also supplied that a quite well hidden, never explored part of him, somewhere deep inside, was enjoying all that _deprivation_ -thing to an amazing extent; plenty of material for further investigations, he noted to himself (or tried to, at least). His fiercer instinct, however, could not agree to be so easily tamed and ordered his hips to buck onward, in the pursuit of some sorely needed friction.

He hardly repressed a frustrated whine when his efforts gained him nothing but for Thorin to take his hands away altogether, leaving him cold and sad and whimpering.

"Behave!" Thorin warned, twisting one of his nipples in punishment. "Or should I restrain your ankles, too?"

The heated glint in his eyes gave far too clearly away just how much he'd enjoy the view and Dwalin mentally cursed when his own prick throbbed enthusiastically in response, _the little sodding traitor;_ though his eyes were glazed and feverish, however, nothing of that internal turmoil made it past his lips bar a gurgling moan.

The feral grin was back in place.

"Good!"

Thorin adjusted himself between his lover's legs, and then feather-light fingertips started caressing Dwalin's temple, his cheekbone, the line of his jaw, traced his bottom lip, until two fingers pushed into his mouth.

In a sudden flash of lucidity, Dwalin’s pugnacious spirit saw its chance to wrench itself out of that submission - pleasurable, maddening, cock-inflaming as it was, still _submission_ nonetheless - and seized it.

The moment Thorin's fingers breached in, Dwalin started sucking and laving at them, gnawing lightly in retaliation, making sure to lock gaze with Thorin and spending every drop of his left energy and will in the effort of showing him what exactly would be his current situation were him free.

"That's impressive," Thorin muttered, in a voice that strived to sound even but frayed helplessly at the edges from arousal, the physical evidence of which was branding itself against Dwalin’s thigh. "But I'm going to show you the right way to... _dip fingers_."

Dwalin somehow managed to snort at the terrible pun, but before he was given the time to actually get indignant about it, Thorin's hand raced down his chest and suddenly pressed at his entrance and Dwalin swore his vision just blackened out for a moment, out of sheer _want_.

Lube was added (even if Dwalin could not tell, for the life of him, exactly when) and, a heartbeat later, slick fingertips circled his hole, tantalising, tracing his rim, providing the slightest pressure and no satisfaction at all.

"You'll come untouched," Thorin sentenced. He lowered gently on the other’s lips, a small peck, an obscene contrast to the wickedness of his never-relenting teasing. "On my fingers alone." 

And without any further warning, his middle finger slid into him and Dwalin simply could not care any less for the loud moan that yanked itself from his throat, surprise and pain and relief all bundled together, nor for the ones that followed when it started moving or when a second finger joined his companion into his fast-slicking heat.

Dwalin clenched hard around them, moving to try and get _more, more, more_ , and his actions stole a grumbling groan out of Thorin’s own throat. He thrust faintly, pushing his hips upward, searching for a relief that the air was unable, and Thorin unwilling, to give. Swiftly, a hand sneaked up, pinning his hips to the mattress and repressing their movements.

Thorin’s grin grew wider at the frustrated sound that crawled out of the other’s lips, and the fingers buried deep into him gave a wicked turn. The man let out a sobbing noise as they hit just the right spot from just the right angle.

The glint that lit Thorin’s eyes was nothing shy from maleficent.

He withdrew just slightly and twisted again, the pads of his fingers brushing softly against the bundle of nerves.

Breath erratic, eyes screwed shut, Dwalin trashed on the sheets, rapidly slipping into even more incoherence, drowning in a stream of mangled curses and broken pleas and unarticulated keening noises. His mind vaguely registered Thorin’s own laboured breathing and that made nothing but fuel his raging need for release.

And then –

Then Thorin’s hand suddenly froze, and Dwalin fell from the heights of his torturous bliss to a too hard ground of stillness inside him.

“Are you-”

“Learning, for fuck’s sake, learning!” Dwalin somehow managed to blurt, hips bucking graceless. “Now- Just, _please_ , keep moving!”

Unimpressed by the threat, Thorin smiled his wolfish smile again – but this time it carried the distinct, rich shadow of sweetness as well. His hand resumed its thrusting, and it did not take long before Dwalin’s insensate babbling suddenly condensed in a sharp cry; his body went taut and then melted into the throes of his release, as Thorin gently kept stroking, till his shaking stopped and Dwalin fell back heavily against the mattress, a sighing, spineless heap of contentment.

Thorin took a moment to just drink in the sight, smoothing a hand along Dwalin’s side, revelling in the bliss shaping his face, the fast heaving of his powerful chest, his sweat-glistening skin, before crawling up, reaching for his mouth.

A hunger-driven kiss.

“Now you know you better keep your hands to yourself,” he whispered, tongue darting to lick at soft lips. “But what about your mouth?”


End file.
